


The Scent of a Watson

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cranial Nerve I is the olfactory nerve, Inspired by Music, M/M, Military, Mistaken Identity, The summary might lead you to believe that Harry's brother is dead - yeah not so much, mention of psychiatric diagnoses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Watson, "bereft" sister of the late Captain John H. Watson, MD, has contacted Sherlock Holmes to help locate missing personal effects.  Sherlock makes some interesting discoveries about the Watson genetic pull.</p><p>+++++<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hiring of Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first visit between Sherlock Holmes and Harry Watson. 
> 
>    
> Fix You  
> Coldplay
> 
> When you try your best but you don't succeed  
> When you get what you want but not what you need...

The email in the inbox lay there equally boring as all the other emails, with one exception:  it was short and festering.

**My brother is dead, and the army sent me the wrong bloody belongings.**

**Can you help?  Harry**

Sherlock nearly deleted it but for the unusual length.  Typically, requests for help, he found, contained one sob story after another, brimming with emotional pleas, angst, and offers of undying gratitude.  His website generated far fewer requests for help than did his notoriety in the press, usually from upstaging Scotland Yard and the band of idiots.

He opened the full email, found nothing else, and became more intrigued.  His reply was equally short:

**Possibly.  Meet me at the Rose, 7 pm, bring details.  SH**

The Rose was a popular pub on the corner of two well-known streets, and Sherlock was hedging 50-50 that the client would be a no-show.  So he was not unduly surprised when, at 705, in strode a young blonde woman holding a stuff bag and clearly looking for a point of contact.  He waited, considering that if she was indeed Harry -  _silly point not to consider that Harry might be a female nickname, won’t make that mistake again_  - he may not admit to his identity.  He’d left Belstaff and the ridiculous deerstalker back at the flat.  Where his latest flatmate had absconded, again, claiming that Sherlock was unfit to live with.  For the love of God, Sherlock had only left the skin sample sheets spread out to measure the effect of dehydration over time.  Certainly nothing biohazardous or toxic.  And this didn’t smell nearly as badly as the gangrenous extremity experiment gone awry.

The woman approached the barkeep, stated she was meeting someone, as Sherlock watched from the corner table.  She checked her mobile, presumably for the time, scanned the room, her eyes quickly passing Sherlock and then abruptly coming back to rest on him.  Her feet lightly carried her over.

“Mr. Holmes?”  There was a slight quaver to her voice.

“Harry, I take it?”

“Yes.”  She didn’t mince words.  “Here is the file on my brother.  He was injured two weeks ago, went to a field hospital, died.  The army, in their typical blundering, sent me the wrong belongings.  I called the chaplain, they have no more information.”

Sherlock flipped open the file, saw official notification of death, commendations, service record, travel orders.

“There is some family jewelry that should have been mine anyway.”  She waited, and at his non-response, continued.  “I want it back.  Along with anything else he might have had.”

Sherlock looked intently into her light blue eyes, then, held them.  Kept holding them, a power play, a deliberate measure to make her as uncomfortable as possible.  She held steady, more than a bit of defiance in her jaw.

“He couldn’t even get killed right, lost his stuff in the process.”  The edge to her voice was bitter.  “ _My_  stuff.”

The distaste she spewed struck him odd, even for him.  He turned a few more pages in the folder.  There were a few photos, one of med school graduation, one of him in dress uniform perhaps at a swearing in ceremony, and one candid of him with a few others presumably from his unit, complete with soldiers, tent, and weaponry in the background.  The next page gave him pause.  “Honorable Discharge for completion of service,” he read aloud.  “He was due to be discharged.... tomorrow.”  Sherlock looked up again, met Harry’s expression of annoyance, and was again puzzled.  “Sad,” he offered, tentatively.

She made a face.  “I told him enlisting was stupid, that it wouldn’t end well.”

“You are close in age?” he asked, thinking he could probably guess but couldn’t be bothered.

“Eleven months.  Irish twins.”  She shrugged indifferently.  “I’m older.”

He couldn’t resist poking at her just a little, curious at the lack of sentiment.  “I’m sorry about your brother.”

She pursed her lips, sighed impatiently.  “Yeah, well.”  She stared at him, and he realized several things:  alcoholic, many relapses, and a present girlfriend who wanted to reconcile.

"You should quit drinking so much.  And go to therapy with your girlfriend, she is enabling you."  Harry's eyes widened in disbelief then annoyance.  She patted the file again, restlessly.

Peculiar.  Sherlock watched, then, as her mobile slipped from her slightly trembling hands, and he leaned down to retrieve her dropped item.  A powerful scent assailed his nostrils, his whole being, as her head drew close to his and he reacted to her being centimetres apart.  The very pores of his face tingled, a flushing sensation scurrying across the skin of his arms under his sportcoat.  His lungs infused with living, breathing energy at her nearness, and he inhaled again, his hands reaching up into her collar to pull her close.  He couldn’t have fought it had he wanted to, and, not imbued with any remote measure of inhibitions, he ran toward the impetus, never away.

“What the hell!!” she hissed as his nose found her shoulder, burrowing deeper as if a bloodhound scenting a fox on hunt day.  He inhaled deeper, in the hollow under her ear, the drive elusive now, dissipating, not quite as strong as previously.  He reached out his tongue, pressed it against her neck, compelled to taste this strange magnetism, to find this essence calling to his very core.  Her hands reached up, grabbing his head roughly and shoving it away even as he fought her to stay close.  “Get away!”

And in the brief tussle, his nose found stronger draws on the scarf around her neck away from her collar, and he took hold of it as he pulled back.  He clutched the scarf as he sat back, holding it to his philtrum, his head angling as he then tasted that, briefly, finding it linty.  She watched as if entranced as his head burrowed in her neck again only to settle once more on the scarf.  Her hand wiped at the wet spot he’d left on her throat.  “Freak!”  She grabbed hold of the file folder, intending to take it back.  “Get the fuck away from me.”

Sherlock held on to both file and scarf, his icy blue eyes meeting hers.  His olfactory nerve had preempted cognitive function, overriding both common sense and the voice of reason, as his mouth opened and out came the words,  “I’ll take the case.”

++

A bit more information was reluctantly gleaned from a rather suspicious and frustrated Harry Watson regarding her brother, John H. Watson, MD.  The jewelry in question was a family heirloom ring, which she didn’t care a whit about except that the stones were rather valuable.  Sherlock asked about the burial, if the ring for certain had been removed from the deceased’s hands, at which point Harry brought out a clear bag of personal effects, in which was contained dog tags in the name of the deceased, a silver mens watch, a few photos, and various miscellany which the army claimed was Watson’s.  Harry insisted that she recognized none of it except the name on the tags.

“The only thing they sent me that I knew was his was that scarf.  Apparently he had it on when he died.  I had to wash the blood out of it.  It's his favorite, used to be, anyway.”

And the burial, she went on to tell him, had happened in the military encampment for that purpose, with military honors, at military expense, she said, also volunteering that she did not attend.

Sherlock held the scarf while they talked, puzzled at the instinctual pull of the item, as well as the distant, non-emotional connection of the siblings in question.  He requested her mobile contact, noted that she would be hearing from him in a week or so, and packed the stuff bag with file, belongings, and scarf - his insistence which, even to him, made not a whit of sense - and left the pub.  His parting words, however, left her seething as he called her a greedy ungrateful sister, without a care for the brother who gave his life for a grateful country and a self-centered bitch of a sister.  She really, he acknowledged, was extremely unlikable.  And that, coming from him, well, that was saying a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only Harry had the power to slap an ASBO on the guy...


	2. The Discovery behind the Locked Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock makes another discovery.
> 
>    
> (Coldplay, continued, "Fix You")  
> When you feel so tired but you can't sleep  
> Stuck in reverse
> 
> When the tears come streaming down your face  
> When you lost something you can't replace...

“Looking for belongings, you say?”  At Sherlock’s nod, he gestured for him to follow, and they entered a large room with bins, clipboards, and various shipping supplies.  A few (pointless, time-wasting) phone calls had led Sherlock to the military hospital south of the city, where most of the wounded and belongings passed through at one point or another.  The receptionist had acted annoyed when he'd asked to talk to the chaplain.  “We log carefully, soldiers who die here or up at the front, everything gets cleaned and sealed along with identification that accompanies the bodies.  For a while I was photographing records but there were too many, and it was too awful.”  Sherlock could just about smell the bitter acridness of the blood residue, despite what he said about cleaning.

“What was the name, you say?”

“John Watson.”

Sherlock had searched on line for the obituary, found it very meager and non-descript with four typos in the first paragraph alone, but there had been no other information of any use from what he found.

The man repeated it several times, found it listed in the log book from two weeks previously, that it was sent out.  The log book was very busy, hundreds of names between then and the present time.  “Oh, by coincidence, I mean I know it’s a common name and all, but we had a guy come in to the locked ward, just the other day, shot I believe, must have been with Watson, I heard his name mentioned.”

Sherlock’s mind engaged, and he casually asked, “Any chance I might see him?  He may have some of this very sensitive information I’m searching for.  I’m here on behalf of Watson’s sister, who is just... devastated [at the loss of the jewelry] and most anxious to have further information [about when her items will be returned].”  He felt no qualms about lying to the chaplain, but added a few phrases in his head in order to make his statements more lies of omission rather than blatantly fabricated.

“It’s a locked unit, sir, for a reason.  The man suffered a head injury, gunshot wound, was suffering from delusions.”  He closed the log book.  “He might have served with this Watson, but it’s not up to me to grant access.  I do remember his name, though.”  The man wrote something down on paper, handed it to Sherlock:  Oliver Davis, room 325 A.

Sherlock thanked the man, circled back out to the reception area.  “I’m here to see Oliver Davis.”

The appropriate search in the computer was quick, and the woman looked up in slight surprise.  “Oh.”

Sherlock continued.  “I’m Mr. Smythe, his caseworker.  He’s in room 325, please.”

“Are his physicians expecting you?”

“They are, of course, the ones who contacted me.  The official meeting has not yet been scheduled, but I’m here to see my client today.”

There was a phone call, and Sherlock was advised, “They’re sending someone down to fetch you.  Locked unit, you know.  Here,” she said, jotting his name on an adhesive badge, “you’ll need this.”

“Obliged.”  The folder came out then, keeping with the official nature of the visit, and before long, he was standing at a matron’s side as she unlocked the doors, allowed him to enter, and locked them again behind them.  

She pointed down the hall.  “You’ll find me when you want to leave.”

“Obviously.”  He took a step, then added, “Thanks.”

Room 325 A was a private room, the name Oliver Davis on the door clip in block letters.  There was an aseptic, unpleasant institutional smell throughout the floor, and Sherlock found it distasteful as he opened the door, went inside, pulling the door closed behind him.

There was a diminutive man, broken appearance, aggrieved expression, bulky old dressing on his shoulder, lying in the bed.  He was unshaven, unkempt, defeated, demoralized.  For all that the military insisted on trim and proper grooming, this man was anything but.  Hair in need of a comb at minimum, light brown but tired looking.  His eyes stayed fixed on the window opposite the bed even as Sherlock approached, and Sherlock was disheartened at what he’d found.  In all likelihood this man would be of no assistance whatsoever.  There was a tee shirt, ripped to accommodate the wound dressing, and hospital issue baggy drawstring pyjamas.  An untouched lunch tray was cold and disgusting on the overbed table.  Sherlock stared at his face - was that an uncaring look, or was that a suspicious, defiant undertone?

“Good afternoon, I am Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock began, clearing his throat in an attempt to draw the man’s attention.  “I apologize for disturbing you, but I am seeking information.”  He was listening, Sherlock could tell, judging by his body language and respiratory effort, even if he didn’t speak or turn his head.  Sherlock flipped open the file, drew out the largest photo.  “I’m looking for information about this man.  Have you ever seen this man before?”

Sherlock approached the bed, holding out the photo, and was pleased that the patient in the bed at least glanced at it.  And then stared as if he'd seen a ghost.  Or worse.  “Oh my God,” the man said quietly, in a quavering, stressed voice that clearly had been underused.

Sherlock nearly held his breath as the eyes of man in the bed turned to see, then, who was standing at bedside.  It was  _him,_ Harry's brother _.  “My God,”_ he echoed back in hushed tones.

The beard, the atrocities he’d experienced had taken their toll, obviously, but watching him with a previously unseen intensity, were the same eyes from the photo.  John Watson, in the exquisitely fractured flesh.  The last few weeks had not been kind, what with injury and perhaps mental instability.  Trauma, certainly.  The glance, though, Sherlock could at least identify thought processes, clearly more was going on here than surface problems.  He saw more than sunken eyes, gaunt cheeks, listless expression and poorly cared for habitus.  Sherlock stared intently at the patient, who had flicked his eyes back to the photo, and a few wayward and probably unwelcome tears coursed down the face, unapologetic, unheeded, silent.  Mindful of his intolerance for sentiment, Sherlock was wholeheartedly grateful that the man in the bed was not sobbing, at least.  

“You’re not Oliver Davis.”

The man in the bed was silent, with something akin to fear in his visage.  There was an awkward pause as time drew out, hung on, neither man speaking.  The man stared at Sherlock, swallowed hard, and was resolutely silent.

“Are you safe here?” Sherlock finally asked, leaning in and then deciding to fold his long frame into the chair at the bedside, hoping it would be less intimidating.

There was a look, then, eyes both suspicious and frightened, taking in Sherlock’s demeanor.  The man in the bed bit the corner of his lip, looked away, handed Sherlock back the photo.

“What’s your name?” Sherlock asked, and when met with stony silence, he asked again, harder, authoritarian, “What’s your  _name, soldier_?”

“Oliver Davis.” Monotone, listless.

“Date of birth?”

The man in the bed idly picked up his dog tags, reading, “April 21, 1974.”

“Where was your last military encampment?”

“Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan.”

“Rank?”

“Captain.”

“Davis was a sergeant.”

“Sergeant, then.  That's what I meant to say.”  Fear had been replaced by something more terrifying, Sherlock observed, finding it a distinct curiosity.

“Why are you lying to me?”  Sherlock stood up, then, consulted his mobile for the time.  He crossed to the window, leaving his back to the bed.

“Lying, sir?”  Eyes flicked to the name badge sticker.  

“Oh, please.  You’re a terrible liar.”  He spun back around.  “Your role on base?”

“Surg--”  He stopped.  “Public Affairs Officer.”

“What day is it?”

Eyes flicked to the white board opposite the bed, and the date was read out loud.

“What is protamine sulfate used for?”

“An antidote to heparin overdose.”  Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, and the patient continued, emotionless on the outside but Sherlock could see the increasing stress under the surface. “I’m a Public Affairs Officer in a  _medical_  unit, picked it up somewhere.”

“What is the Victoria Cross awarded for?”

“Valour in the face of the enemy.”

“Who is Harry Watson?” Sherlock carefully asked the question, words sliding out casually.

“My sister,” he answered quickly.  And with that, the man in the bed stopped, a look of horror at what he’d just revealed inadvertently. 

The triumph that Sherlock initially felt as he caught the man in the lie dissipated as he saw the expression crumple into anxiety, and a feeling of pity emerged then, unfamiliar and twangy in his chest.  “Soldier, are you safe here?”

Silence.

“I can't help you if you don't level with me.”

There was a minute, defiant shake of his head, and the man in the bed sighed, looked away.  “Who sent you?”

“Harry.”

“She would never... ”  The man in the bed was fatigued, wrung out, and in the early stages of becoming visibly upset.  “Are you affiliated with the hospital?  Are you here to have me involuntarily committed?”

“I’m a detective from London.”  He took the photo back from the patient.  “Harry gave me this.  She received notice of your death, by the way.”

“Why would she contact you?”

Sherlock kept his voice low, hearing hallway traffic outside the closed door.  “She wants this back,” he said, grabbing John’s hand to indicate the ring on his right pinky finger.

“Prove it was her.”

“The photos, first.  She was blonde, shorter than you.  Still has a drinking problem, likely serious, and in a rocky relationship with a female.  Not a particularly nice woman, in my opinion.”  The patient nodded his agreement.  “So, for the third time, soldier, are you safe here?”

“Not as John Watson I’m not.”  He spoke quietly, just a few sentences, then, about the attack in Afghanistan, the shoulder wound, leg abrasion, head injury, the wrong dog tags, the psychiatrists who have started labeling him with diagnoses rather than listen to him.  He recalled being injured, explaining how he and a few others in the mess hall were hit, of being barely conscious as apparently a unit member Oliver Davis stole his dog tags, scarf, and his orders for discharge, leaving his own tags around John’s neck.  “Another round of sniper fire, they told me, he took a hit to the leg, started hemorrhaging profusely...”  He stopped, a look of distress evident.

“And they gave him _John Watson’s blood type_.”  Sherlock gestured upward.  “That’s brilliant!  Anaphylactic shock, respiratory arrest, death."  The animation was disturbing.  "Do they even realize what happened?"

“Brilliant?  God, that’s a bit not good, by the way.  He  _died_.”  The patient then processed the rest of the sentence.  "I have no idea what they know, this is what I was told happened."

“You say this of the man who stole your tags and orders for an early discharge?”  Sherlock pointed at his shoulder.  “How likely are  _you_  to need a blood transfusion? _Sergeant Davis, type B,_ ” he said, plucking at the tag.

“I’ll eat these dog tags first.  Transfusion reaction would be a terrible way to go.”

“Resourceful if a bit unpleasant.”  Sherlock inclined his head toward the hallway.  “So.  Are you medically cleared to leave?”

“Medically, yes.  I think so.”  The words however were uncertain.  "I can be."

“I'll make a call later, advising them of your discharge needs.  Trust me, then,  _Davis_.  I’ll be back in the morning to get you out.  I introduced myself as your caseworker today just to get past the idiots at the front desk.  Tomorrow may require deception of another sort.  Trust me.”

“Not bloody likely.  But getting out sounds ...”  A broken sound came out then, and he let the sentence dangle.  

Sherlock watched as John, clearly emotional, swallowed hard, and the muscles and cords in his neck moved.  Sherlock wondered absently about burrowing his nose into that neck, inhaling...  He checked himself.  “All right then.  Shower, shave, get dressed, eat for God’s sake," but a glance at the tray he added, "perhaps not that.  Let them change your dressing.”  John began to ask how he knew that, and Sherlock held up a hand, “Oh please, it’s obviously in need of being changed and you trust no one here, perhaps with good reason.  Refusal is the only reason that fits. You don’t trust the food either.  Tomorrow morning, being a Monday, there will be all new staff, and no one, probably, will remember me.”  Sherlock stood then, preparing to leave.  There was such sadness in John's expression that Sherlock looked away, uncomfortable.

“Can you help me up?” John looked completely humiliated having to ask, as he gestured toward the loo.  When Sherlock balked, he continued, “I can take it from there, but getting there... not so much.”

Sherlock pulled back the blanket and watched John’s weakened, atrophied legs slide toward the edge of the bed.  “Holy shit,” he breathed, “have you eaten at all since your injury?”

“Barely.”  His feet eased to the floor, weakly, and he glanced, embarrassed, over at Sherlock.  “Been thinking perhaps they were right and I’ve lost my mind.  No one listened.  You have  _no idea_...”  There was a steadying breath, and John continued, “Thinking starvation might not be a bad way to go.”  The brokenness in his voice was a heartbreaking thing to hear.  “And then you showed up.”

There was a cane leaning against the nightstand, and Sherlock offered it to John, who accepted it with a teeth-grinding smile of insincere gratitude.

Sherlock steadied him under the elbow as he put weight on his feet, bobbled, and Sherlock had to reach out with both hands to grab around John’s waist.  His proximity then caught Sherlock unprepared, as the scent, even in his uncared for state, reached his nose.  There was a gut-wrenching tug of absolute  _need_  to be closer, of skin-tingling heat that began on Sherlock’s arms and raced in all directions.  It was as if he'd been drowning and just risen above-water, or if he'd been starving and an aromatic plate was in front of him.  He was _bloody unable_ to stop himself from leaning in, breathing deep of the essence of the man.  It was so much stronger than previously, of the man’s sister or the scarf, that his own legs nearly weakened as he took several gulping breaths from John’s collarbone, under his ear and up along his hairline.

“God, what are you  _doing_?” John snipped at him, his frail hand taking Sherlock’s head and trying to push him away with trembling, weak muscles.  “Back off.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said, barely resisting the urge to taste as he breathed in deeply again before letting John push him away.  This sensation, he thought to himself, was equally as powerful if not more-so than his years-ago addiction to cocaine.  It was an all-encompassing, burning, passion to meld, become closer, breathe it in, make it one, become one with it.  It was both unstoppable and unexplainable.  John took a few steps, shuffling ones, leaning hard on cane and gripping onto Sherlock as if he was afraid of falling.  As Sherlock watched his debilitated efforts, he eyed the weak form, and said, with some measure of alarm, “You sure you’re medically cleared?”

John reached the door to the loo, clutched the door frame.  “I'll do whatever it takes, I can’t stay here another day."  Desperation was evident in the tone.  He continued, "Please, don't leave me locked in like this?  God, please, you’ve got to...”

“Okay.  I’ll wait here because I don’t trust you to ring for help getting back to bed,” and with that, he closed the door and turned back.  The pillow from the bed, Sherlock noted, as he picked it up, had been permeated with the scent of the man, musky, sweaty, richly aromatic with primal pungency.  Sherlock inhaled, the craving irresistible, and he listened to water running and flushing and the brushing of teeth.  At that point, when all sounds had ceased, Sherlock knocked twice and opened the door carefully to ensure that John hadn’t collapsed onto the floor.  He was seated on a shower bench, absently running a flannel over his bearded face.  “You need help shaving?”

“You think they just give razors out to people on this unit?   _Genius_.”  

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at that but he let the rude comment pass by.  “You ready to get back?”  In answer, John gathered the cane and stood back up on wavering legs, clinging to the proffered arm and leaning heavily on the door frame as he eased past it.

Exhausted by the efforts of merely walking the few steps to perch on the bed, John leaned his head back, closed his eyes.  Sherlock watched him briefly, as uncertainty and doubt clouded his features.  He leaned in discreetly, inhaling again but less frantically than earlier, confirming the powerful effect of aromatic triggers making him slightly queasy and tingly in his extremities.  John moaned, then, pain - emotional, physical, both - evident in his tone.

“Are you sure this is real?”

“What?”

“Perhaps you are also a delusion.”

“I am neither delusion nor hallucination.  What is the central arterial structure of the brain termed?”

“The circle of Willis, starting at the vertebral artery, the basilar, posterior cerebral...” John smirked then, the words trailing off.  “You  _swear_ you’re coming back tomorrow?”  It was obvious John was fearing Sherlock wouldn't return.  The doubt was evident, the insecurity and uncertainty.  Sherlock could not imagine being locked in, trapped, particularly without presumably anyone to listen or believe him.  To question one’s own sanity, as John confessed to doing, seemed to be the ultimate betrayal by the profession that John belonged to.  

“Tomorrow.  I promise I'm not abandoning you here.”  

“You know, if you’re not who you say you are, I will flat out deny anything we’ve talked about.”

Sherlock left his business card there on the table, as John’s exhaustion overtook him.

A train ride back toward London allowed him time to phone the nursing unit, advising them to expect patient Oliver Davis for discharge tomorrow, and to phone Mycroft to inform him that his governmental connections may be required, as well as to request transportation from the hospital back to London in one of his fleet of black tinted window cars.  The trip, he reasoned, by cab and train, would be too much in John’s weakened condition.  

He did not notify Harry Watson.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visiting another Watson, another bizarre encounter.


	3. Welcome to Baker Street, John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bringing a fragile person to Baker Street was rather frightening for all of them.
> 
>    
> (More Coldplay)  
> When you love someone but it goes to waste  
> Could it be worse?
> 
> Lights will guide you home  
> And ignite your bones  
> I will try to fix you

The following morning, Sherlock, having spent quite a bit of time on details and a few errands required to smooth the transition out of hospitalization, arrived in more formal regalia than the previous day.  The natural aristocratic air would suit his role, and he was surprised to find that, along with the driver he’d requested from Mycroft, that Mycroft himself had also accompanied.

“What the hell, Mycroft?” he sighed as they met in the lobby of the tertiary military hospital.

His older brother looked down his nose, nonverbal displeasure evident from him as well.  “Wanted to see what mess you’ve gotten yourself into.  Again.”  His umbrella tapped the floor lightly as they waited in the lobby of the building.  “And you may need my assistance.  You know how deficient you are at bureaucracy.  Or when diplomacy is imperative.”

Sherlock turned, coat tails swishing with attitude, signed in at the desk, as he introduced himself as Oliver Davis’ stepbrother.  The form accompanying the patient had listed father as next of kin, but the data was old and Sherlock had a story prepared for that as well.  “He passed 5 or 6 months ago.  Lung cancer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”

Sherlock made a dismissive motion with his hand, and turned as someone approached to escort the pair upstairs to where the patient was waiting.  The actual brothers were silent as they approached room 325.  Sherlock knocked on the closed door and entered.

‘Oliver’ was reclined on the bed dressed in ill fitting fatigues, a tee shirt, cleaner than yesterday's, and boots.  An arm was over his eyes, and he lifted it briefly to view the newcomers.

Sherlock crossed the room as the staff member looked on.  “ _Oliver_ ,” he said in greeting.

“Hi,” was as much as expected.  Sherlock could see the pulse point bounding in the neck of the recumbent form in the bed.  

Another staff member, with a name badge from case management, arrived then, having obviously seen their arrival, and was carrying a clipboard as well as a belongings bag.  One of the nurses came in, too, with discharge paperwork.

Sherlock rose to the occasion, extended a long arm.  “Sherlock Holmes, Oliver’s stepbrother.”

The hand was shaken, dropped, and the introductions included Mycroft as a family friend.  The paperwork was mostly a formality, and was mostly directed by the nurse at ‘Oliver’, who apparently, at least based on how the staff interacted with him, no longer suffered from any type of identity crisis.  Discharge instructions comprised wound care, several prescriptions including pain medicine, antidepressants, anti-anxiety medications, and ended with directions to resume all previous diet and activities as tolerated.  He was instructed to be seen by his regular physician shortly after discharge.  When the prescriptions were handed to the patient, Sherlock watched hesitantly as the patient said tersely, “I won’t be needing those,” and tried to hand them back.

“Yes you will,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

There was uncomfortable eye contact between Sherlock and ‘Oliver’ while the staff looked on.  “I don’t need them.  And I _won’t_ be taking them.”  Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock resisted the urge to glare at all of them.

Sherlock stood, turned his attention to the nurse, reaching out an imperious hand then for the prescriptions.  “I will be taking charge of Oliver’s care, and will ensure that he takes what is ordered exactly as prescribed.”  He towered over Oliver, then, and said in a slightly annoyed tone of voice, “We talked about this yesterday, that you are going to cooperate with this process.”

The glare that Sherlock was received was the most spark of life that Sherlock had seen coming from the other man.  “Fine,” he finally agreed, although his tone indicated  _anything but_.

The nurse and case worker were satisfied that their obligations were met, and asked the patient for a signature in several places.

It was fortuitous that Sherlock was standing to the patient’s immediate side, however, because as 'Oliver' began to sign his name, it was unfortunately not with the letter O, and Sherlock quickly cleared his throat and made a snide comment, “Oliver, your handwriting is as atrocious as ever, I see,” and the pen made immediate corrections to sign appropriately.  The nurse handed ‘Oliver’ then, the bag of belongings and had him sign, with no need for correction this time, the receipt for personal items.  Sherlock took the bag, said warningly, “I’ll carry this for you.”  He was fairly certain that the service weapon was inside based on approximate weight of the bag and did not want that in the patient’s hands for any reason.

A few more housekeeping items that go along with discharging patients were completed, and a few minutes later, the entourage, one in obligatory wheelchair and three walking, was waiting by the locked door for egress.  Brief glances at the patient certainly showed that he expected this to all fall through at any moment.  Sherlock didn't think John could get any more tense as the wheelchair approached the door, and he placed a hand on his non-injured shoulder, squeezed slightly, as the doors were unlocked so they could leave.  "Breathe," he said softly, leaning toward the wheelchair. "You're okay."

The lock opened, the doorway widened, and Sherlock wondered if he was only imagining that the air did indeed smell differently beyond the locks.  A volunteer waited outside the door.  “Davis?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered when no one else spoke up, and then fell into step behind as the patient was wheeled to the front door.  The trio and meager belongings were stashed into the car, Mycroft, Sherlock and the patient in the back seat, with Mycroft facing backwards.

An awkward silence hung inside the vehicle while Mycroft turned piercing eyes at his brother first, and then he reached out a hand.  “I don’t think we’ve properly met.  I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother.”

“Sherlock’s much  _older_ brother,” Sherlock chimed in.

Mycroft found his hand shaken, silently.  He quirked an eyebrow as silence reigned in the auto.  “And you are --?”

The eyes that returned his steady gaze were serious and calculating, and Mycroft wasn’t sure if the predominant emotion was fear or exhaustion.  “I am whoever won’t get me returned to a locked psychiatric wing of the hospital.”  The cane in his hand rocked side-to-side in his fingers, toying, rubbing.

Sherlock spoke up then, not wishing a confrontation to begin within the first minute of the car ride home.  “Is there still any question whatsoever as to your own identity?”

The non-Holmes occupant of the car turned to look at Sherlock, then.  “None," he said, and in a show of resolve, he pulled the dog tags he'd been wearing up and over his head and stuffed them in the baggy cargo pocket of his fatigues.  "I may have a few concerns about you two, however.”  

"As well you should," Mycroft intoned so quietly that afterward John wondered what exactly he might have heard.  Mycroft leaned over his shoulder, spoke to the driver.  “Baker Street, if you please.”  

When he turned back to look across from him, the man was watching him with great concern.  “My sister lives in the South Hampstead section.”  There was stillness in the vehicle as it maneuvered through traffic.  “She does know I’m coming?”

“John.”  Sherlock seemed to prepare for the conversation as if he were gearing up for battle.  “Perhaps a few days to rest, get some strength back.  There is room in my flat, and I am expecting to oversee your recovery.  I insist.”

Even the slight amount of activity was already taking its toll, and John leaned his head back against the seat, closed his eyes.  “Good god, seems I’ve traded one prison for another.”

There was muted conversation between the brothers, much of it inaudible, but occasionally words were clear, beginning with Mycroft: “I tried to warn you.”

“It’s fine.”

“You barely take care of yourself, and you think you’re going to be of any benefit?”

“He’s fine.”

“He’s not fine.”

At that John sat up, glared at them both, and snarled, “This is so fucked up.”  He glanced at Mycroft, nodded, and said, “I am John Watson, Captain... former Captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Actually, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said in a condescending tone, “what you are, according to official records, is  _dead_.”

John felt his jaws clench, regretting that he’d bothered to answer at all.  “Last I checked, I still had a pulse.”

John zoned out most of the rest of the ride, became interested when the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of a building.  Doors opened, the driver carrying baggage to the door, then returning to the car and driving off leaving Mycroft, Sherlock, and John standing on the kerb.

John looked, in Sherlock’s opinion, like he might have been standing at the base of Mount Everest given the look he gave the building.  “Tell me you’re not on the top floor.”

Sherlock took an elbow while Mycroft held the door.  “No, seventeen steps to the flat, then it’s all first floor, bedroom, kitchen, sitting room.  I’m up another flight.”

Mycroft crocked an eye, snorted, “Since when?”

Sherlock glared back as John watched, waiting, as well.  “Since additional stairs are going to be easier for me.”

Between the cane, assistance from the brothers, two rest breaks, and an inordinate amount of will-power from John, they were eventually seated in the flat.  John was out of breath, and had there been a fire, he thought to himself that to perish would be a blessed relief.  Something cool brushed against his hand as he sprawled awkwardly on the couch, his shoulder paining, his head aching, every muscle feeling weak, undernourished, and dehydrated.

“Drink, John.”  He obeyed, and the water glass, once empty, was removed.  He felt his boots being removed, a blanket being thrown over, and allowed sleep to overtake him despite the complete and insecurity of the totality of his present situation.  Army situations could occasionally do that, he mused, the physical necessity to sleep in stressful circumstances, as his eyes grew heavy.

Confusion was the first awareness he had upon awakening.  Unfamiliarity assailed every sense, every feeling, every scent.  With heavy eyelids, he fought his way to sentience and found the room wholly foreign.  He was lying on a couch in apparently the sitting room of an empty flat, a fleece blanket over him as he rested against a Union Jack throw pillow.  His boots were on the floor haphazardly.  There was a full glass of water on the coffee table across from his head.  Light coming through the adjacent wall of windows seemed indicative that he’d been asleep for  _hours_.

Pain crept in, spasms from shoulder to knee, as he inelegantly pushed himself upright and looked around.  The flat had certainly seemed empty in stillness and silence, so he was surprised when he spotted Sherlock seated in the next room, computer open, microscope in use, and assorted glassware spread before him.  His gaze flicked over to John before returning to the lens in front of him.  Recognizing the body language as that of dismissal, John tossed the blanket away and reached for the water.  Several prescription bottles sat neatly in a row next to it, recently filled at the chemists, in the name Oliver Davis.  He must have been soundly asleep, then, to have slept through some activity.   _Percocet, Wellbutrin, Klonopin, Flexeril_.  Had John possessed the energy, he would have been tempted to hurl them across the room in frustration.  Instead, he opened the percocet, snapped a tablet in half, and chased it down with most of the glass of water.

Funny dichotomy, he thought, that he could be as quick as any physician to prescribe or recommend pharmacotherapy to everyone else but he hated -  _hated with a passion_  - needing medications personally.  Half a pain pill, he hoped, would take the edge off the shooting discomfort.  Of not so funny situations, however, he mused, was the profound awkwardness of being a stranger in a stranger’s home and very little to ease the tension.

“Thanks for filling these, by the way,” John offered, his voice still sounding ridiculously hoarse and weak.  He considered offering to reimburse expenses but as he presently had no means to do so, kept quiet.

Long fingers waved dismissively, “Mycroft's people,” was the only explanation.

John considered that briefly, asked, “Loo?”

Sherlock didn’t pause in what he was now reading from the laptop as he jotted a few notes.  “Down the hall, left.”  

John’s cane was leaning close, and he set about levering his way off the couch, his shoulder burning with the effort and his atrophied muscles screaming in protest.  As he managed to gain his footing, he heard Sherlock moving behind him, felt steadying hands at his waist and free arm.  The escort ended at the doorway, and Sherlock reached past, flicked on the light.  “You ok from here?”

“Since I was three, thanks.”  And John shortly was back out in the hall, leaning heavily on the cane as Sherlock held him upright.

“I appreciate your help.  But,” he paused, “don’t feel like you have to stay or babysit...”

“Or act as your jailor.”  John gestured, eyes still closed, in agreement.  “You joked about that earlier.  You are free to leave anytime, if you would prefer to call _your delightful sister, Harriet_ , feel free.”  The disdain was evident in his voice, but John appreciated him saying so.

++

Over the next few days, John did little but rest.  And eat meals that showed up in the flat.  John refused to feel guilty for the inactivity and knew he needed time to heal. His body and his mind were in desperate need of recuperation. He washed up briefly in the bath and wore borrowed pyjamas that hung down over his toes.  He weaned down both pain medication and the antidepressant, knowing abrupt cessation of the Wellbutrin was dangerous.  One morning, Mycroft showed up again, bags in his hand.  John's personal items had been located and retrieved from his military unit in Afghanistan.  The correct dog tags hung around his neck.  His medical kit, clothing, toiletries, razor, and a few items of miscellany shortly were sorted.  Oliver Davis' things had long since been removed, taken by Mycroft and presumably would be returned to Davis' family.  Prior to Mycroft's departure, he did advise both men that later on, either later today or in the morning, a few servicemen from the MOD would be visiting "to begin officially resurrecting Dr. Watson from the dead," he said a bit cheekily.  "You can expect a physical exam and a veritable mountain of paperwork.  Once that has been initiated, we will pursue reinstating your medical licence and pension."  Mycroft narrowed an eye at John then, neither of them particularly in the mood for additional conversation, but Mycroft's sarcastic wit overcame his penchant for silence.  "So please do try to maintain a pulse until then, John?"

His razor was one of the first things he used, finally finding his jaw again after weeks of hiding.  He'd always preferred to be clean-shaven, and felt both healthier and younger when he was finished.  The first shower John took was both heavenly and exhausting, and left him completely wiped out for a marathon nap on the couch.  He was too tired to dream, but at one point, he awakened to the sound of rushing wind, thinking it a desert sandstorm, and he reached for the handkerchief he usually kept in his pocket to protect his face from the stinging bite of airborne projectiles.  As awareness came into focus, he felt and sensed the presence of another head quite close to his own, inhaling deeply, slowly, as if trying to absorb the very essence of John's scent.  He opened an eye, felt the abrupt pulling back of Sherlock’s profile, dark curls at the periphery of his vision.

“What the fuck is it with you?”  John was still tired enough that he did not even lift his head, instead, turned a bit to meet the inquisitive gaze.  “You should probably consider yourself fortunate that I awaken with a few inhibitions.  I'd hate to take out an eye or snap your neck in self defence."

Sherlock had risen, mild look of shock about him.  He was muttering, shaking his head, as he moved to the window.

“Something you’d like to share with the class?”

“I can’t ...”  He cocked his head, an apologetic tone that was so awkward John was positive it was not a frequent emotion.  “You...”  And he broke off the sentence abruptly, strode to the door, grabbed his coat off the stand.  John leaned up on an elbow as a scarf - one John recognized and Sherlock had sort of forgotten was under the Belstaff - fluttered to the floor.  No eye contact was forthcoming, and Sherlock swooped it up in a long armed grab, exited the flat, with the door closing so hard the wallpaper seemed to resonate with the closure of the solid door.


	4. On a hot summer night, would you...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recognises his need for Sherlock, and figures out that what Sherlock wants just might have to be okay.
> 
>    
> Fix You  
> (Coldplay)
> 
> Tears stream, down your face  
> When you lost something you cannot replace  
> Tears stream, down your face  
> And I....

 

Minutes passed.  In the deafening silence, oppressive, overwhelming, John felt his breathing and heart rate accelerate.  More minutes passed.  The solitude of being on his own in the hospital paled in comparison to the feeling of being utterly alone now, deserted.  Desolate.  Struggling to his feet, he laboured the short walk down the hall to the loo, had to stop and catch his breath halfway there.  Finishing quickly, and medicating for pain before leaving, he paused in the hallway, leaning heavily on his cane and hating the dependency and absolute betrayal of the body he’d always taken rather good care of.  And his mind, well, he forced conscious thought from that, focusing instead on the pain and the half percocet he’d taken and trying to remember the half-life of the drug based on hepatic and renal bioavailability.  This emotional response, he simply tried not to think about it even as he felt his throat tightening.  Once back on the couch, he was a bit surprised to find that, despite expecting to feel relief at having successfully managed a trip to the loo (and if _that_ wasn’t as humbling as it could get), he actually found himself ready to somehow, impossibly, crawl out of his own skin.  Rising panic at being alone, at the possibility that Sherlock was well and truly gone and not coming back, he could only gasp slightly as his mind played out worst case scenarios.  He had no means of outside communication.  He would struggle for basic survival, had no means to contact anyone, had actually no idea what his next hours or days would entail.  And then, even as he knew,  _he knew, deep down, knew,_  that Sherlock would probably be back shortly - he was going to have to get a grip on himself.  Audible out-of-control breathing was not, he told himself, a good start.

He’d seen plenty of panic attacks, he knew, but had never experienced the gut-clenching fear and irrationality.  Seated on the couch, leaning forward, elbows on knees, he felt his breathing, entirely too fast, too deep, gripped by the lightheaded dizziness that accompanied hyperventilation.  His skin was clammy, moist, sweat just dripping from places it had no business dripping.  His ears seemed to pick up minute sounds from the street, sidewalk, front door.  He could hear the blood pounding in his ears, the top of his head pounding in response, the stimulating effect of stress-related catecholamines surging throughout his vasculature.  He knew his face was flushed, could feel the heat just emanating out of his core and his pores.

By the time there were footsteps on the stairs, real and not imagined, John was near tears and thinking perhaps he should have just stayed in hospital to get the mental help he obviously, desperately needed.  More than one set of feet, then, he realised,  _bloody hell,_ Sherlock wasn’t alone, was chatting with someone, other males whose voices John didn’t recognise.  

Sherlock opened the door, mid-sentence, and stopped mid stride.  His eyes took in, the most thorough of glances directly at John’s unmistakable distress, and he whirled around, blocking the view of the other man and he began to close the door.

“Excuse me, we are going to need a minute here.  Please, give us a few?”  There was a response that John couldn't hear.  “Yes, there's a coffee shop down there, just next door, fine.”

John could hear his own gaspy and ragged breathing as Sherlock crossed the room, in few quick long steps, sat down opposite him.

“What's wrong?”

There would be no answer for a while, John tried to respond, but all he could manage was “I --” before great big shaking breaths seized him, and Sherlock put long arms on his shoulders before moving his hands to either side of John’s face.

“You’re all right.”  John looked at Sherlock with wide open panic-stricken eyes, knowing he was as desperate and broken and pathetic as he’d ever been and finding it completely deplorable.  “God, I’m so sorry, I should never...”  The tight grip of panic on John’s chest and breathing remained, constrictive and prohibitive as their eyes locked, really locked, the pain in John’s conveyed tangibly and intangibly to the pale compassion in Sherlock’s.  John’s own hands grasped Sherlock’s forearms, knowing he was squeezing and not caring and unable to let go.  A frantic need from within spurred him, and without giving it too much conscious thought, he angled his head to the side, knowing that sweat and scent and emotion was simply radiating from every nook and cranny.  He offered up his neck, leaning forward, showing that vulnerable area of throat, in a most intimate of gestures that, even as it was submissive - _take this, I give it to you_  - it was also in control at the same time - _I am choosing this,_  a conscious decision, an offering.  Part of him, the broken unbalanced part, was making a deal, ensuring Sherlock’s presence with the only thing John could think of to offer - and cracked as that was, it must have been well received, as evidenced by the dilation of Sherlock’s pupils and the slightest pleased quirk of his lips.

As Sherlock’s head moved, trance-like, closer, John felt something begin to ease in his chest, a deep breath in the making.  Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed and he breathed in the very essence of John, soaking him through heightened airway passages into his very lungs to become ingrained in cellular structure through alveoli and capillary membranes, mixing with blood and plasma and permeating all living cells.  And damn him, he breathed and breathed, just couldn’t get enough, couldn’t soak in enough John, for long moments stillness prevailed until they both seemed to relax, each to the other.  John’s eyes were closed, his forehead resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his nose burrowed over John’s clavicle.  The tense grip of needy hands had relaxed slightly into full stop clinging, intimate and warm.

Giving.  Receiving.

“The men from MOD are here, and a doctor, to see you.  They'll be coming up,” Sherlock said, easing back, his voice gentle and more than a little in awe of where they were.  There were indeed footsteps followed by a quick knock.  “Okay?”

John felt an approaching normal inhale, exhale.  He thought about speaking, decided a nod was adequate.

Whether the visitors had any inclination that something powerful and compelling had just gone down or not, they gave no mind.  “Dr. Watson?  I am Dr. Rudolph Scott, of the Second Army...” and he went on, verbose, giving both introduction and unnecessary descriptions of complicated processes required in order to adjust the clerical discrepancy.  By the time he was ready for any input from anyone else, John was more relaxed and Sherlock was seated calmly, as he had been earlier, at the laptop typing furiously on either that or his mobile.

Clerical Discrepancy.  John sighed, then, shifting uncomfortably on the couch and looking over at Sherlock, who was staring right at him and clearly fighting the urge to react to that phrase.  The doc opened the records he brought, asked John a few personal questions regarding his commander, unit, dates of deployment, then nodded, closed the file, obviously satisfied that John was who he claimed to be.  More signatures, a cursory physical examination that consisted of vital signs, chest auscultation, and shoulder wound dressing change (which he pronounced healing well), and he assured both men that this would be untangled and set a-right within a few days, due to the influence of Sherlock’s apparently rather persuasive older brother.  He offered mobile physical therapy, which John turned down even as Sherlock accepted.  Dr. Scott nodded, made a note, and said that a physiotherapist would be contacting them within a few days.

Once the physical part of the meeting ended, the other men seemed to, as Mycroft said, have a mountain of paperwork.  There was a form to undo the death certificate, and a form to certify that the first form was indeed superseding the rest.  Forms to reinstate John to active duty, so that all medical benefits were in effect, and forms then to certify his honourable medical discharge.  There were fingerprints obtained to compare with his military records on file and because he had a licensed firearm.  Eventually, they explained, there would be a reinstatement of his pension, and he signed those forms, too.  There was discussion of getting his medical license restored to active.  They assured him they would return within a day or two in order to bring his first cheque, with retroactive payment, along with a housing allowance and a stipend that would cover some of his medical needs as he'd been injured in an active war zone.  A commendation, they explained, would likely follow.

Once the flat was devoid of guests, John groaned.  “I’m rather certain that I will never hear an apology, will I?  No one will ever acknowledge the hell they put me through.”

“Harry may be the one to go screaming through the ranks to get that pound of flesh.”

John smiled briefly at that.  “Agreed, she’s a loose cannon with a foul mouth to boot.  The army should be afraid of her, I know I have been for years.  She can be bloody brutal.”  He sighed then, "But she won't.  It didn't personally affect her."

“So, tomorrow?  I will contact her tomorrow?”

“I guess there's no sense putting it off.”

“Will she invite you back to stay with her?”

“I doubt it.  If I asked, she might take me a few days until I find something else.”  

Sherlock looked uncertain.  “She certainly didn’t seem too concerned or grieving.”

“We never got on much, me and Harry.”

“John,” he hedged, his manner tentative, “You could stay here.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?”

Silence fell as the question was asked.  There was really no answer to that.

****

That night, Sherlock asked John what he wanted for dinner take-away, and, without hesitating, John requested the typical Brit food that he'd been missing for so long, bangers and mash.  John decided, as he was feeling just slightly stronger, that he would actually shower and dress in clothing not fatigues (all he had were jeans and a jumper, but he looked forward to that).  He also wanted to shave again, before dinner arrived, and he'd taken his kit into the bathroom.  He hedged at the aftershave, knowing Sherlock's penchant for all things olfactory, that he was inclined to attempt to inhale and absorb John's very essence.  As it was, he opted to apply lightly, and he stepped into the hallway, leaning hard still on the cane, but feeling the most human he'd felt in an enormous amount of time.

Sherlock was waiting in the hallway in case he needed help back to the sitting area.  “All s--?” Sherlock actually looked at John as he was speaking, and the word died in his throat.  “--set?”  His head tipped upward slightly toward the ceiling, nose leading the way, sniffing, unable to stop the reflexive search for additional data.

John nodded, knowing the aftershave carried into the hallway, feeling the inexplicable pull between them, and pondering the conflicting reactions he had - very interested, and very hesitant.  “Yes.  Feels much better, thank you.  And for waiting, too, I’m ready to be off my feet.”

There was a poignant pause while John limped, mostly without human assistance, back to the couch.  Sherlock dropped to the coffee table directly opposite, and John watched as the angle of Sherlock’s head changed and he tried to inhale discreetly.  Their eyes connected, and something in John’s expression must have been freeing of Sherlock’s words.  “May I?”

John knew exactly what he was asking.  Their proximity, the angle of Sherlock’s head, the history not an hour ago of what they’d shared.  And John angled his head again, leaning forward, wordlessly giving permission.

This time, whether it was directly because of the request and permission or something else entirely, Sherlock pressed in, his face next to John’s, cheek to cheek, with Sherlock’s hands coming in to hold steady - one sliding in along his ear, the other carefully over John’s injured shoulder, behind it.  The electricity, the sheer magnetism, was warm, radiating, tingling.  Heightened sensations, despite the fatigue, motivated John to action, and he slid his hand over Sherlock's pectoral muscle, coming to rest over a peaked nipple, his hand firm, fingers teasing.  At Sherlock's low moan, John pulled away, uttering a mild apology.

++

That night, Sherlock sat for a long time there in the bedroom just watching John sleep until his restlessness got the better of him and he stood up to prowl the flat, only to return when he became aware of the sounds of wakefulness. 

If there was a dream involved, John didn’t remember it, only the claustrophobic sensation that startled him into a panic, his own exclamation of alarm awakening him in terror, and ended up with the hallway light flicking on and Sherlock, concerned, in the doorway.  John eased back down onto an elbow, his shoulder absolutely throbbing as his sleeping body paid it no heed in it’s haste to pursue escape and assure survival.  He moaned, his hand reaching over the wound, and he sank back into the pillow unable to support his own weight comfortably.

Sherlock crossed the hall briefly, returned with pain medication, offered it out.  John took a whole tablet, accepted the glass of water, handed it back.  “Thanks.”  His voice was unacceptably shaky, breathy, and tight.

Sherlock turned out the hall light, pulled back slightly on the corner of the curtains allowing faint either moonlight or streetlamp to give the hint of illumination in the room.  John lay, his hand still holding support over the painful shoulder, watching, willing his heart rate to slow, the pounding in his head to ease, the cramping muscles to unclench.

“You could --”

“Can I --”

Both sentences died off at the same time, and John reached out, his non injured side arm, to flick back the bedcoverings.  Sherlock ghosted in, his form a bit stiff, both of them tightly coiled springs.  John could nearly palpate the tension in the room, but willed his shoulders to lower, his breathing to slow, his eyes to stay closed.

Sherlock eased closer, and John could sense and feel the bed dip as he approached, and Sherlock’s long fingered hand slid out, reached John’s ribcage.  “This ok?”  Without waiting for an affirmative, Sherlock eased his head to John’s shoulder, his free hand coming to ease lightly over the injured one, gently, reassuringly.  John lay stock still, his skin tingling, nerve endings firing to and fro as Sherlock’s nose sought the base of his neck, and the inhale seemed to settle them both.  Oddly, inexplicably, John could almost feel his body settle, vital signs return to baseline, the tension in his back and face relax.  It was still long minutes before his breathing settled completely, but sleep was a welcome friend, a soothing combination of security, companionship, and, ultimately, the effect of pain medication.

John awoke slowly, finally easing to wakefulness.  His shoulder was much less sore - pain med still working - and the comforting presence of another in the bed, burrowed still, Sherlock's long form cuddling up against his side, face below John’s ear.  It was strangely, bizarrely, reassuring.  He flicked his eyes downward to see Sherlock’s face still relaxed in sleep, youthful in repose.

But the sleep didn’t last long, and the arms tightened over John’s chest and John could feel the searching of Sherlock’s nose as it scented him, breathing deep, inhaling John’s unique chemistry.  Slowly, Sherlock’s hand moved from shoulder to John’s head, and the angle of Sherlock’s body changed as he moved closer.  Wetness followed, at the juncture of neck and clavicle, as Sherlock’s tongue licked, tasted.  John thought about protesting, honestly and truly, and then his own twisted and bizarre reasonings that, if Sherlock wanted this, and John wanted - what did John want, anyway? - well, for starters, if it was merely someone to share this nightmare with, well, so be it, and there were worse things traded for less noble reasons.  Gentle suction followed, the barest of lips forming an ‘O’ as the tasting of John approached indelicately improper.  John couldn’t help squirming under the intense sensation, as his neck, that spot in particularly, had always been a rather sensitive area, and in the right instance, an erogenous zone.  

“No marks,” he cautioned, his voice gravelly and rough.  John felt the shape of the lips on his neck change, the tasting moving slightly higher toward his ear, the faint scrape of teeth.  “Seem to have lost my scarf, you know anything about that?"  And John then felt the lips lose their suction as a smile took shape along his neck, and Sherlock’s shoulders shook as he chuckled.

John allowed the position to remain for a few seconds until he abandoned higher reasoning, and angled his head against Sherlock’s until it pushed Sherlock’s mouth off his neck.  Their breath met, mingled, faces close enough to see depths of blue eyes meeting brown eyes.  John's eyes flicked down to Sherlock's mouth, lips still moist, parted slightly, definitely still seeking.  Jaw lines came together, the gentlest touch of lips meeting, and whatever John had been expecting, he was surprised that the kiss was as tender, intimate, and comforting.  Fingers came up along the angle of John's jaw, guiding him closer, holding, reveling, as lips parted and tongues touched, probed, gentle in the exploration.    The overwhelming sensations that John had previously seemed distant, and he pulled back, confidently turning his head away from the fingers holding him there.  Sherlock didn’t protest, simply breathed deep.

“Jeezus, what is it with you and your first cranial nerve, anyway?”

“Damned if I know."  Sherlock moved away slightly, his nose sliding the length of John's shoulder, toward his armpit, inhaling and savoring.  He continued, "It is a rather perplexing dilemma.  I hate not knowing what exactly it is about you.”  He pressed forward once more, his mouth sealing over John's, briefly, as if in closure, and he leaned back, then, though John could tell it wasn’t easy, there in the dim light of the room.  “I noted it to a far less intense degree with your sister, which was how your scarf came to be in my possession.”  

John blew out a breath, chuckling, trying to imagine Harry dealing with this quirkiness of Sherlock's.  “I’m sure Harry parted with it good-naturedly.”

“She didn’t appreciate my smelling her neck.  Nor tasting her, either.”

"You didn't kiss her, did you?  You know her taste runs to women."  Sherlock chuckled, nodding.  “ _Tasting_."  John processed what Sherlock had said, continued, "Oh God.  You’re lucky she didn’t smack the shit out of you.”

“Well, she may get another chance.  I’m sure she’ll be  _absolutely delighted_  to hear from me later today.”

 ++

Later that morning, Sherlock put Harry on speaker phone and invited her to stop by for an update.  She pressed for details, but he flatly refused, stating that no further information would be given except in person, and he hung up.  She had agreed to stop by the next day.  John couldn’t help but feel he’d had an eleventh hour reprieve.

A courier arrived later with lunch and a package from Sherlock's brother.  Sherlock stared at it for a few minutes before handing it to John, and John could tell that Sherlock knew exactly what it was, suspected that he'd requested it.  The slight package contained a factory-reset gently used mobile phone, with a newly assigned phone number, and a hastily written note that simply said, "regards -  MH"

When John turned questioning and grateful eyes to Sherlock, there was almost a sad smile.  "I'm sorry, John," he began, "that I didn't think of that sooner.  Before..."  He tried to downplay the whole thing.  "It's no problem."  He held his own mobile, then, punched a few keys, and moments later the mobile in John's hand buzzed.  "There's my number.  And lunch is ... do you need help?"

John eyed the kitchen, the takeaway containers there, and pried himself out of the chair in answer, leaning heavy on the cane.  His progress was slow, steady, but he managed.  While in the kitchen he made an important discovery, and when there was a near groan of sheer pleasure, Sherlock's attention was finally forced away from the things occupying him at the table.  "What is it?  John?"  He was to his feet before coming to an abrupt halt as he saw what John had discovered in the kitchen.  "Are you okay?"

"Oh, God.   _Tea_."  His voice was rough, raspy, and Sherlock stared.  "I haven't had a real cup of tea in months.  I am..."  John turned to see Sherlock watching him, standing there with a great degree of concern.  "Oh my god.  You want a cuppa?"

"I'm not turning down anything that has given you this kind of response to it.  Maybe I've been missing something.   _Yes.  Please_."  

Kettle switched on, tea bag (PG Tips, John's absolute favorite staple), two mugs, sugar bowl - John managed to take care of everything except the carrying of said hot beverage, which Sherlock had been keeping a sharp eye on the goings on and showed up in time to carry both.  John let his cool while he powered up the smartphone, toying with apps and websites he hadn't seen in ages.  He googled his obituary, and then became incensed at the brevity, errors, and typos.  Sherlock promised him that Mycroft would demand a contrite retraction and a protracted apology.  

John tried not to think of how long it had been since he'd had hot tea without sand in the immediate vicinity.  He held the steaming mug under his nose, breathed deep, savoring the heat and warmth and aroma.  "That," he said, eyes closed, "smells _amazing_.  Oh, my God.  Heavenly."  A sinking feeling of being watched settled through John's chest as he opened his eyes, looked over at Sherlock who was watching him intently, slightly amused, and he realised what he'd both said and done.  The similarity of John's breathing deeply over the teacup and Sherlock breathing deeply buried in John's neck was not lost on him.

"If tea was what you wanted, you could just have asked.  It's been here all along."  As they held the eye contact, John was startled by the intensity and the desire he saw on Sherlock's face, and he didn't especially think that they were still talking about _tea._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from a classic rock and roll song from the 1980s, "Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth", by Meatloaf. Album title Bat out of Hell. The complete line is "On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?" If I had any skill whatsoever, there would be cover art for this chapter.


	5. Visiting with a Watson - past and present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are not always what they appear. Harry, Sherlock, and John have an encounter at Baker Street. Lestrade drops by. Sherlock visits a memory, and John puts it all together.
> 
>    
> (Fix You, by Coldplay)  
>  High up above or down below  
> When you're too in love to let it go  
> But if you never try you'll never know  
> Just what you're worth
> 
> Lights will guide you home  
> And ignite your bones  
> And I will try to fix you

John could hear Harry fussing all the way up the steps.  And wow, she was on a roll.  Annoyed and frustrated, John recognized, and she was already pretty geared up  when she arrived, blustery and whinging already at the buggering inconvenience of having to schlep all the way across the city.  She was still complaining as Sherlock, who had met her at the door of 221, escorted her into the flat. 

And straight into the direct, visual gaze of her supposedly dead brother.

“Hi, Harry.”  John was seated, at Sherlock's directions.  He had cautioned John that, if Harry became out of control, he would make sure to step in.   _Trust me_ , he had said.  John was hesitant about that, after all, he'd known Harry far longer than Sherlock had.

“Oh my God.”  She gave him the once over, shocked, and stared with wide eyes.  “God, John?  What the hell!?”  She was clearly angry, incensed, and even though it was rather early in the day, she had already been hitting the bottle, slightly pissed before eleven am.  “You look bloody awful."  Her hurtful words didn't seem to register with her even as she continued, "Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through, Johnny?”

The men in the room exchanged a glance, Sherlock’s gaze puzzled and questioning, while John’s clearly was of the I-told-you-so variety.

“God, John, I mean, I’m glad you’re not dead, but I just filed for your death benefits - you know when a soldier is KIA, that they double the payout?!  We were going to put a downpaym--”  And with that, she became aware that Sherlock had cleared his throat, and of his intense disapproving stare.

“I mean, well...  “  She hesitated.  “I guess they’ll figure it out and want their money back.”

“I would expect so, seeing as how they just reinstated him as a living person yesterday.”  Sherlock’s tone was dry and icy and John could almost palpate the disdain  in the room.  

John toyed with his cane as he gestured for Harry to sit.  She blatantly ignored the gesture, so he spoke.  "I was rather surprised when Sherlock Holmes showed up at the hospital."

"Yeah, well, I heard he was a detective.  To find missing..." she looked from one to the other "... stuff."

"Ah, yes, the ring.  That was given to me."  John stretched out his fingers as she set her gaze to it.

"I want it, Johnny."  There was an angry edge to her voice.  "It should be mine.  I'm _older_."  She held out her hand for it, and John could see Sherlock in his peripheral vision shake his head slightly.  "You'd still be stuck in that hospital if I hadn't tried to find it."

"No."  

"And now that you're all... not dead, I'm not going to get anything."  John hadn't seen her in a while, and had not been previously aware of how miserably unhappy she was.  "I think you owe me that, at least."

“Ah, yes a happy little reunion," Sherlock interjected tersely.  "Harry, I invited you here because I thought you should know first hand that your brother is alive."

Harry looked from one to the other as they stood there.  John hadn't expected a big embrace from her, but he didn't realise that it's absence would hurt.

Sherlock continued.  "You had hired me to find the ring on John’s hand.  Instead, I found John was still wearing it.”

“ _My ring_ , yes I did.”  She met his gaze.  "I'll take the ring, and then I'll pay you.  As we had agreed."

"John."  Sherlock was watching him intently, letting his eyes flick to the ring and then to Harry.

“It was never _your_ ring, Harry,” John said quietly.  The angst in the room was taking it’s toll on him, and while he didn't quite follow, Sherlock had told him to trust him.  He sighed with fatigue.

“Give her the ring, John.  That was what she hired me to find.”  He spoke matter of factly, emotionless. John looked at him in disbelief at what he was asking.  “It was what got you out of the hospital.”  His eyebrows raised as he watched John, almost a silent reminder of where John had been and how bad off it was in that locked unit.  Part of John was indeed appreciative that Harry didn’t know that particular detail.

John could only cock a head at Sherlock, staring.  “Fuck you.  It’s a family heirloom.  And it’s mine.”  If he’d been up to it, he would have liked to throw a punch, storm out, he was that aggravated.  Both of those activities, however, were out of the question, and John was too bloody knackered to summon up additional arguments.

“Oh, give it.  As she said, she feels she is entitled.   _Trust me_.”  His eyebrow raised, and suddenly John sensed that he was up to something.  “It’s hideous anyway.”  That insult hurt, too, and John briefly looked over at Sherlock, and there was just a bit of a sparkle in his eye.  Harry started complaining again, and John tuned her out, thinking that it had probably been a blessing he'd been deployed and not in her company the last few years.  Sherlock crossed the room, stood in front of John, his eye contact powerful and riveting.  It was also, in John’s opinion, firm, resolute, and not to be trifled with.  Hand outstretched, Sherlock stood still until John complied, sliding off the ring and placing it in Sherlock’s hand.  He leaned back on the couch, feeling every ache in his shoulder, his leg, as he was staring at the pair in the room, feeling very outnumbered and discouraged.  And yet, he was fully aware that Sherlock was up to something and that, ultimately, Harry would, in all likelihood, not be walking out the door with the item.

Harry stood, then, having watched the dynamics, muttered with almost displeasure, which was curious seeing as how she had just been handed what she wanted, “You always were whipped, Johnny, but I think this is the first _bloke_ who's done it to you.”  She was just being nasty for the sheer pleasure of it.  "Guess all those _girlfriends_ had it wrong all these years, eh?  Wouldn't they be surprised."

She slid the ring on as John watched, and then she withdrew the cheque in the agreed amount, handed it over to Sherlock.

And so he watched the jewelry change hands, Harry now with the jewelry on her finger, where she full stop believed it should have always been.  John thought the ring looked different on her, and his hand felt oddly out of place without it.  She bade them both a shallow, unfeeling goodbye, at which point, Sherlock stood up to her.  "Ms. Watson, I strongly recommend you stay far away from me in the future.  If you are storing some of his belongings, I would like them dropped off within a week.  If John wants to see you, he will be the one to call.  He is recovering from serious injuries, thanks so much for asking about his well-being.  Your lack of concern is pathetic.  Selfish."  Standing by the open door to the flat, Sherlock then added, "It's a bit early in the day to be consuming this much alcohol, don't you think?"  Sherlock waited until she'd approached the door, stopping long enough merely to make an unpleasant face in their general direction.  "And, by the way, if your girlfriend leaves you now that this cheque is going to be withdrawn, you know, she didn't really want you to begin with."

John watched Harry get increasingly angry and stomp down the steps.

Once it was the two of them again, John spoke.  “What the _hell_ was that all about?"  John felt his mouth was dry and the brokenness he'd been attempting to rise above had returned in spades.  

"She said 'we' were putting a downpayment..."  He stood there, his voice nearly gentle, and then he realised John was not talking about his closing shots at Harry Watson.

"Yeah, heard that, thanks, don't care, and not what I'm talking about.   _The ring_ , Sherlock, thanks loads.”  John leaned his head back against the couch.  "I know I don't have much, and even less now, ta."

There was silence in the room, and John watched Sherlock lower himself on the couch next to him.  "You didn't protest much."

"You said something about trusting you.  I figured you had a plan.  A bloody.  Plan.  I fully expected you _not_ to hand it over, you know."  Sherlock seemed to be waiting, and finally, John sighed, growling, “ _What?”_

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable.  He waited until he was certain he had John’s attention, then flicked his eyes down to his own outstretched palm.

John’s ring lay in the center of his hand.

"What the hell."  He glanced at Sherlock’s face, which was still rather unreadable.  “Explain.”

“Swapped yours for a cheap copy from a pawn shop down the street.  It’s where I was the other day when I went out, why it took me so long.”  When John hadn’t moved yet to retrieve it, he took John’s hand, dropped the ring into it.  “Kept it warm in my pocket, easy enough to switch them unnoticed.  She didn’t deserve it, and you did.  And it’s not hideous, specifically.  But I needed both of you unfocused for a moment.”  He stood up, then, and John was grateful for the respite of distance between them.  “I am rather certain she hasn’t seen it lately, so she is unlikely to recognize the substitution.  There is no appraisal, I hope?"  John shook his head in the negative.  "Then whatever she recalls its value is something that she will be unable to prove.”

John cleared his throat, slid the ring back on his finger where it belonged.  "It would have been nice to have known that ahead of time."

"Yeah, I see that now.  I wasn't sure I was going to need it."

“Thanks for that, then.  Genuinely, this time.”  John flexed his fingers, feeling the ring and the odd sentiment at having it quickly lost and found, given away and returned, that it was indeed special.  "Good thing I wasn't up to throwing a punch, you know.  But that was a pretty lousy thing to do to me.  Bit of warning might have been courteous."

"Warning."  Sherlock tested the word, and his pupils were dark as he looked over.  Their eyes held for a long moment, heat building.  "Okay.  I'll give you fair warning.  I'll be joining you again tonight, down the hall there."

John looked quickly over, found the smallest of smiles on his face as he stared back.  "I'll give you fair warning, then, too.  Don't be thinking that this," he held up his hand, indicating the ring, "gives you the right to any special favours."  There was much less tension in the room, and a degree of teasing, both directions, in the expressions playing out on both of their faces, but an absolutely serious discussion occurring as well.

"I got rid of your sister.  That should entitle me to something?"  Sherlock slid a hand over John's leg as he spoke, his hand warm.

"You may have a point there."  John's eyes darkened.  "She was rather horrid today."

"You sure you're up to...?"  Sherlock let the phrase dangle.

"What exactly are you suggesting?"  John's voice was gravelly and low, his leg pressed into Sherlock's, and he reached out a hand, slid it behind Sherlock's neck, drawing them closer.

There was a heated meeting of lips, punctuated by the occasional nip, slide of tongue and mixed with the certainty and knowledge of where they were headed.  John felt his chest expand under Sherlock's touch through the soft tee shirt, and his fingers sought the buttons on Sherlock's dress shirt.  A thrilling sensation was building under his zipper, and his thoughts turned toward deciding about staying on the couch or moving to the bedroom.  The couch seemed a better - certainly quicker - option, until there was a knock at the door.  Neither had heard footsteps, they'd been engulfed in the snog on the couch.

Sherlock stood, gave a pointed tug to his trousers, readjusting things while John tried in vain to hold back the chuckle.  Sherlock glared back at him, muttering something about him being grateful he could stay seated, at which point John met his direct glance and slid his hand suggestively along the shaft of his cane.  Opening the door to admit someone John didn't recognise, he issued a blithe, "Be careful with that," in John's general direction.

Introductions ensued, and John found himself under the curious eyes of DI Greg Lestrade, who fussed at Sherlock for not answering his mobile.  They exchanged stacks of files, talked a few minutes, with Sherlock in his feisty glory complaining about the substandard investigative work and the incompetence of Greg's underlings.  John found himself wondering if this was Sherlock's baseline frustration with the DI or if he was always this disagreeable.  Or if the frustration was of another variety completely.

"So," Greg said, when there was a lull in Sherlock's barrage of veiled hostilities.  "You seem surviving well with this nutter.  I should leave you my number in case things get out of hand here."

John glanced from one to the other, with Greg looking more intrigued and Sherlock looking concerned.  Greg eased into the chair across from John, a wily grin trying not to take over his face, and said, manipulatively, "Yeah, Sherlock, coffee'd be great, thanks."  When Sherlock moved to the kitchen, Greg continued.  "You met during a case, Sherlock said."

"Something like that."  John had no intention of revealing much, and Sherlock was shortly back with coffee, handed it to Greg.

"Missing person, of sorts," Sherlock supplied.

"Must have been some case," Greg hinted expectantly, looking from one to the other.  "So, you just... moved in?"

"Desperate times..." John began, leaving the phrase unfinished as Sherlock just slightly cleared his throat.

Greg definitely had something else to say, but took the hint and changed the subject.  "So there's a crime scene I'd like you to come take a look at."  He'd turned back toward Sherlock as he spoke, and opened one of the files he brought, where apparently the investigation had just begun.  He spun some of the details out loud, describing the remnants of a struggle as well as bizarre clues such as the placement of a shoe, wayward placement of an errant newspaper, and even the hours-gone-by lingering of a bitter, smoky odor in the room. 

"I told you I'd let you know when.  And it won't be today."  John watched the two men staring at each other, and saw that they were both doing more communicating by what they _weren't_ saying.  "Photograph the scene, I'll take a look at them."

"But the scent..."  Greg ran frustrated fingers through his thick silver hair.  "There's much more than meets the eye, here."

John watched Sherlock deliberately keep his face neutral and take great efforts _not_ to look at John in return.  It became blatantly obvious to John, then, why Sherlock was not leaving the flat:  John's mental fortitude, or lack thereof.  "I'll be in touch."

"You should go," John said quietly, pleased there was no wavering in his voice.  "Check out the scene."

"No."  

" _Sherlock_ ," John pressed.  "Of course you should go.  You're _needed._ "

An eye narrowed as he watched John for signs of stress.  "Are you sure?" he finally asked.

" _Yes_.  Go."

Sherlock checked his mobile and pocketed it, after complaining that Greg had left two voicemails and seven texts, and tossed John his own.

In the end, with all of them not saying anything directly, John successfully encouraged the (stubborn, strong-willed) detective to accompany Lestrade from the flat.  Sherlock finally agreed, donned his long coat, tucked the scarf just up under his chin while John watched.  John'd never been jealous of a garment before, but found himself oddly envious.  There was the briefest moment unobserved by Greg Lestrade before they closed the door, and Sherlock tucked his nose down into the scarf, winked quickly at John, before following Greg's quick pace down the steps.

The flat was oddly, abruptly silent for all of ninety seconds until John's mobile buzzed.

**You're sure?  SH**

**Yes**

**Let me know if anything changes.  SH**

**Of course**

**And you are ok now?  SH**

**Fine.  Go solve me a crime**

There was a pause, the ellipsis stuck in a time warp.  John took stock in his surroundings, acknowledging that the phone was already making a huge difference.

**When I get home, I will tolerate no interruptions.  SH**

**You probably should focus.**

**I am quite focused.  SH**

**On the case.  And bring my scarf back unharmed please.**

**You might need to wear it for a while again, it's losing its scent. SH**

**It's a poor substitution.  Come home and you can have the real thing.**

Time dragged on as John waited for a response to that, his heart pounding as he wondered if he was too bold, too assuming, or worse, completely wrong about their intentions.  Finally, the ellipsis changed to words.

**Looking forward to it.  SH**

John found that, in Sherlock's absence, he found an enormous difference between being alone in the flat this time.  The coffee went down smoothly, he spent a bit of time reading, and the shower felt terrific.  His strength was returning, his stamina improved, and his coordination was better with the cane.  The shoulder wound was healing up well, and he left it open to air, protected by his tee shirt.  After reheating leftover takeaway, he was somewhat startled by another knock on the door.  It was one of the officers from the other day, who stopped off to bring him some paperwork and deliver a cheque to him.  He stood, formally, prior to leaving, and issued a letter of apology to John for the unfortunate pain and hardship he'd been subjected to.  The officer had no sooner left than a physical therapist arrived.  

John had never encountered personally the grueling rigors of physical therapy.  He'd expected a few exercises, some stretching, perhaps deep muscle massage, and while he did get a bit of that, he also found himself being pushed to do things that had his underused, greatly weakened muscles screaming in agony with the intense effort.  The therapist, Colleen, who was deceptively sweet looking was a surprisingly strict drill-sergeant, and by the end of the visit had John plotting a small bit of harm against her person for the labour she inflicted on him.

"Okay, Dr. Watson, one last thing before I go, until next time, of course," and she grinned while he rolled his eyes and sighed audibly in near exhaustion, "the steps."

John hadn't ventured anywhere near the upstairs, where Sherlock had been sleeping initially, but Colleen had him in short order maneuvering his way up, cane in one hand, railing in the other, and his shoulder and leg both complaining and trembling.  Colleen would never have known to be surprised, but John could only stop and stare as he approached the upstairs bedroom.  From his vantage point at the doorway, it was clear the room hadn't been used in a very long time, judging by the layer of dust and the bed in complete disarray, with no bedding and instead piled high with miscellaneous items and boxes of books and some laboratory equipment.  Clearly, Sherlock had never slept up there, had no intention of doing any such thing, and John wondered why Sherlock he hadn't bothered to at least give the _illusion_ of credibility.

By the time John returned to the couch while Colleen let herself out, he was surely exhausted, more than he'd been in quite a while, and he fell into a bone-weary sleep.  Even the buzzing of the mobile phone wasn't enough to awaken him.  It wasn't until the sound of the door opening that John roused from the (overdue, well-deserved) nap to a tall rather intense and very concerned man who arrived home.  "Are you all right?" he asked, speech just a little pressured.  John gestured off handedly, silently questioning.  "You didn't answer the phone."

"Hmmm.  Sleeping."  John realised the concern was for his own well-being and non-responsiveness.  "Oh.  Sorry."  He hit a button on the mobile.  "Only 4 texts?  And no voicemails."

"Greg can be an idiot."

"So you solved the case, then?"

"Yes.  Interesting but not challenging."  He made a dismissive face, seemed to relax, and changed the subject.  "Someone's been here," he said, nose on high alert as he crossed the room to where John was slowly sitting up.  He picked up the paperwork from the MOD officer, set it aside, still searching.  Sherlock leaned in, sniffing, inhaling, his hand touching John's shoulder, gently, then sliding to evaluate the state of John's hands, bringing them under his nose.  "A Woman?"  The question was not kind but instead, rather threatened.

"Physical therapist.  Colleen.   _Slave driver_." 

"Oh?"  Sherlock smirked.  "25 years old, thereabouts.  Wearing Chanel.  Coco Mademoiselle, to be specific.  Blond ponytail."  He plucked a hair from John's shirt sleeve.  "Petite, too skinny for you."

"And not who I am interested in at present."

"Harry seemed to imply a lot of girlfriends in your past."

"Well, yes.  Realised I preferred men after I enlisted."

Sherlock tried not to startle at the surprising bluntness of John's statement. "Yeah, how'd that work out in the military for you?"

"Never came up.  Officer, you know.  It's frowned on.  Learned to take care of things quietly."  John was wide awake now, grateful for the nap, although he was already feeling stiff and sore.  "How about you?  Any lovers I should know about?  Been breaking hearts since you were, what, 15?"

"No.  Late bloomer.  Didn't break a heart until at least 18."  When he stopped talking, John waited, then finally gestured for him to continue.  "Bloke at uni, I was more curious than interested in him."  He eyed John's injured shoulder.  "No bandage.  You sure?"

"Med school, you do recall?"  When Sherlock was unsatisfied with that answer, John continued, "It's fine."

"Ah, right.  It may surprise you," Sherlock said, his nose sliding lightly around the pinna of John's ear, "that until very recently," Sherlock's hand feathered its way around John's waist, pulling him closer, "no one has really interested me."

"It might _interest you_ ," John began, "that I have been upstairs."

"Yeah, about that..."  Sherlock's chest angled into John's, firm muscle against a slightly trembling rib cage.

John's lips turned toward Sherlock's then, heat suffusing both mouths, greedily, hungrily seeking.  Fingers twined into dark curls, angling his head closer, pulling even as Sherlock's hand drifted resolutely to John's flies.  "Bedroom?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."  John stood, his stiff muscles again making themselves known.  "Are you expecting anyone else today, though?"

"No, but ... locking the door, good idea."

Sherlock stripped off clothing as he followed John down the hall, and once they were there in the bedroom, his hands eagerly sought to divest John of all remaining garments.  Hard muscle met hard muscle, and lips trailed down from Sherlock's collarbone to hip as John pressed his face close, his mouth warm, wet, seeking.  Quickly, both decided laying down was much preferable, and before too many minutes passed, there was a bit more heavy breathing, hands reaching, stroking, pulling.  Sherlock, before things got too carried away, eased John on his back, started just under John's ear, his apparently favorite place, and tasted, nuzzled, inhaled slowly, warmly, his hands wandering, pausing when there was a moan or arching into his touch.  His destination, finally, his nose to the soft line of light hair that ran from waist to groin, nuzzling coarse hair, and his open mouth drew a hard swallow and an "oh-my-god, yes!" from John as he both inhaled the sweet and heady muskiness of John while his mouth tasted and suckled.  Finally, John could handle no more, reached an arm under Sherlock's elbow, pulled him back until they were face to face on the pillow, hands touching, sliding, stroking, and tense.  There was an occasional "Oh my god" moan, and, finally, shuddering and blessed coiling tightness followed by rhythmic, pulsating release.  Before the sweat had time to cool, Sherlock rose to find a flannel to clean up with.  John couldn't remember when the night's sleep had been quite so restful.

 

++

  Epilogue

John whistled a few lines of the song that had been playing on the radio at the surgery.  His first week with full time hours, after several weeks building up to that, had ended with a patient having seizure in the waiting room, and a hypoglycemic episode in the treatment room.  Both handled efficiently with him giving directions to various staff, calling 999 for the seizure, both patients more stable within a few minutes.  But he would be glad to see the flat, and Sherlock, and have a long weekend off.

The cane was mostly decorative now, and stood at the bottom of the steps of 221B.  He didn't particularly want to pick it up, but after the walk from the tube, he was feeling it in the leg.  Most of him was looking forward to sitting down, and there were still 17 steps in front of him.  The door opened, at the top of the (uneventful) flight of stairs to let him into the sitting room, where Sherlock had risen to meet him at the door.  They came together, hands sliding around John even as he let his bag and cane rest at their feet.  It had become a comfortable, familiar greeting - there at the door, where John angled and stretched out his neck and Sherlock leaned in, inhaling deeply, occasionally guessing some of the patients he'd contacted that day just by the lingering scents.   One evening he'd guessed the sickening sweet breath of a diabetic with severe hyperglycemia, and John joked about offering him a job.  Sherlock retorted that if he could guarantee he'd never need to smell the other body fluids that periodically found their way onto John's lab coat, trousers, or collars, he would, even then, still not be interested.  John glanced over at the windows, the light in the fading part of the day catching the faint burgundy highlights of the dark hair in his field of vision.  There was mutual pleasure in the familiarity, and it occasionally was a means of foreplay.

"Long day?" Sherlock asked, his mouth near John's clavicle, his hips now pressing inward against John's pelvis.  John reached out an arm, pushing the door closed even as Sherlock nudged him into the wall.

"Not too long, saved a bit of energy for you," and John reached out a confident hand, sliding inside Sherlock's trouser waistband as Sherlock sucked in his already thin belly.

John's hands, sure, steady, unzipped and began with firm, long strokes around Sherlock's length, drawing both moisture from the tip and a moan from deep within Sherlock's chest.  He sank to one knee, already sensing that Sherlock was already very close and exquisitely aroused.  A few moist motions with his mouth coupled with knowledgeable physician's hands brought a tensing, coiling, powerful release punctuated by the sharp intake of breath and then the near boneless collapse into the nearest chair.  He drew John into his lap, angling for access  with both hands and relentless until John was freed through his flies.  Long fingers started gently, teasingly, just as John preferred it, but soon became insistent, demanding, hot, and tight before low, shaky moans came from John as orgasm took hold.  Warmth oozed over Sherlock's fingers, and Sherlock reached for a handkerchief with which to clean up.

"You're very nice to come home to," John said around a smile at the play on words.

"Wanker," he said right back, the same smirk for the same reason.

++

Conversation after dinner turned to a few of the more interesting patients John had seen, and, as usual, he had not asked for enough details about non-relevant personal issues to satisfy the great inquisitive mind of his flatmate, but the story had come around to something in the patient's childhood that affected their present state of health.

"How about you, when did this highly defined sense of smell start?"  John was leaning back against Sherlock, who was angled into the corner of the couch, his arms easily around John, the telly quietly droning through another advertisement.

Sherlock shrugged.  "I have always been able to identify greater scents and differentiations than most in my family, certainly within my group of friends.  You know, a cigarette brand by the ash, the type of bread by the smell, the Christmas tree by scent."  He inhaled again near John's ear, taking in remaining hint of shampoo, faintly of sweat, of clinging remnants of the various children he'd held in the clinical setting earlier in the day.  "But the first time I remember actually noticing the pleasant scent of another person?  Because I have to tell you, most people just do not  ... they don't have the same ... oh, bugger it, you, John Watson, smell like I can't get enough.  Other people either don't smell like anything, or don't smell good."

John nodded, giving Sherlock both time and space to speak the words the way he wanted them.

"The first person?  Other than my mum, you understand, her skin lotion was like lilac and lavender and outdoors and rain.  But the first time someone else smelled that way, we were on holiday in Scotland, I was probably 7 or 8, Mycroft was an annoying arse, imagine him in close quarters while travelling?  Anyway, we had stopped into one of those small towns outside Dundee, to the south.  There was this antique bookstore there, can't recall the name.  My mum wanted to browse, one of her first loves, of course, books.  The owner was there, very passionate about his craft, my parents were engrossed.  Anyway, I was following Mycroft somewhere until I got distracted by a book about pirates on the top shelf, went to climb after it.  The shelf was slippery, and I would have fallen except that the owner must have seen my shenanigans, and either caught me or grabbed me before I fell.  And he had this scent, like balsam fir trees and sunshine and I remember mummy laughing when he tried to put me down but I wouldn't let go, just kept..."  To illustrate his point, although unnecessarily, he leaned his head down to the top of John's collar, his inhalations drawing the sense of air moving along John's neck.

John nodded, trying to imagine an 8 year old feeling bombarded by a new stimulus like that.  

"It was like being hit over the head, I remember ...  I was ill-equipped to handle the sensation."

"I'm not sure you entirely have it all under control yet, you realise."  John wriggled back against Sherlock's face, feeling, hearing the inhaling quietly in the warmth and familiar bend of his neck.  There was a slight snicker followed by a nip at John's earlobe.

"So, I was...  just mortified when I realised.  My parents, too.  My mum bought the book after all that, I still have it somewhere."  He gestured toward one of the full book cases that was in the corner, seldom used, a low traffic corner of the room.  Sherlock stopped talking then, "I had forgotten a lot of that, but I can still remember the feeling I had.  I didn't understand it at all."

John was silent, gathering his thoughts for a moment.  "Dundee, you said?"

"Town south of it, yes."

"Bookstore."

"John, you know I hate to repeat myself."

Sherlock's phone chimed, then, with Mycroft's incoming text tone that Sherlock had aptly set to the sound of crickets.  Sherlock sat up, fished out his mobile, leaned forward to respond.  For a few moments, Sherlock was engrossed in the rapid exchange of snarky digital conversation pieces.  John took the moments to open his laptop.  He searched a few sites where he had stored some digital photos long ago, and as he neared what he was looking for, he felt Sherlock also watching the screen.  "Oh, there it is.  Was this the bookstore you mentioned?"  John angled the laptop lid and enlarged the picture.   The vintage photo showed a wizened adult standing in front of a store front, holding a case of books along with someone, likely an author.  "Second Bairn, was that it?"

Sherlock was quite still, then, his chest suddenly barely moving as he breathed.  "Yes.  You grew up there, around there?  In Scotland."  John nodded.  "Knew the store?"  John was quiet as Sherlock enlarged the photo, focusing on the worker in the photo.  "I'm pretty sure this was the owner, he's a little older here.  The one who caught me, I'm sure of it now."

 "I grew up outside Dundee.  We moved to Edinburgh when I was about 12 and then to London the next year.  My father owned, managed, ran a vintage bookstore until the money ran out completely.  We had to leave almost everything, shortly after this photo was taken.  Second Bairn was the store name."  John's voice was soft as he continued.  "Finances were tight.  It wasn't unusual to find almost anything for sale in the store, things that were from the house, our own stuff, books, housewares.  My mum used to bake..."  John smiled a sad smile at the photo.  "He was a good man."

"Your father."

"Yes."

_"This is your father."_

"He's been gone about ten years now."

"It was never strong, never as strong, as until I met you, this deep need to..." he left the sentence trail off.  "There were vague echoes of it over the years, but never remotely close to this.  It was rather strong with Harry, very intense on your scarf.  Interesting.  But _you..._ "  He speculated on the innate desire, the imprinting, the unique drive, the addiction to the scent of John.  Most of what he was saying was delivered with his nose carefully at the edge of his favorite place - John's neck.

++

The book was finally located at the far edge of one of the shelves, forgotten, dusty.  The inside panel had a weathered bookplate, the telltale pencil writing of a school-age child, and a rough drawn picture of a pirate battle.  "Property of Captain J. Watson, pirate hunter".  Underneath, in more careful penmanship, and the confident flair, was written, "Captured by W.S. Holmes, Pirate"

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the scent of a Watson. So the bizarre reaction as a pirate-loving child, in a bookstore in Scotland -- it all makes a little more sense [scents] now.
> 
> Off to listen to a little Coldplay now. Thanks for reading. Kudos and comments, if you wish, are always greatly appreciated. I have loved this little one-off and am sad to be putting these characters to bed... oh, wait a minute, actually I guess I'm not sad, I'm thinking that's just exactly where they belong from time-to-time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. The story is complete.
> 
> I think many people have "that certain" scent that is magnetic and powerful, that pulls a person closer. I married a man who loves to cook on the grill, and the pungent savory smell of grill that carries in on his clothes and person is one of those smells for me.


End file.
